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Spin me a Fairy Tale

Every night she would demand a fairy tale. When I ran out of creatively tweaking the traditional ones, I had to start making up my own. The catch was at times my creativity carried me away and seeing her screwed up eyes I would soon realize I had gravitated to a ghost story instead! And so I became the master or mistress if you please, of fairy tales. I even started gaining vicarious pleasure out of them, lulled into thinking that nothing could go wrong with the world, that there was a magical quality to life that set everything right in the end. I became my own fairytale.

As time passed, this ritual naturally saw a gradual decline, transmigrating into a different form of reassurance such as a pat on the back, a light touch on the cheek or a hug that spoke volumes, a confirmation that sought to set things right. Reassurance was what she craved or was it that I thrust it upon her to feel good myself? In hindsight, was I misguided in my demonic urges at trying to wipe out reality with my love? I can remember the day she came back crying from school because someone had pushed her so hard she fell. I made a grand production of it. I took her out for ice cream, bought her gifts, and prodded her into feeling like a heroine, an aggrieved one at that. I ensured she felt that the world owed her one. If I had cared to find out I would have come to know that it was my daughter Niya who was the covert instigator of that incident. But would it have really mattered to me? I would have probably carried on my crusade nonetheless.

The day her college closed for summer vacations stands out clearly in my memory too. She came back distraught and tight lipped at something which took all my efforts to unravel. She felt left out she said, sad that the other girls did not share with her the closeness they did with each other. It seems they had not offered her the goodies they had brought to mark this temporary parting. Though our annual summer vacation had been ruled out this time due to a severe cash crunch, I threw every consideration to the wind and took her to the seaside, her favorite place. Nothing else but the waves would do to wash away my darling daughter’s sorrow. She was ecstatic and my spirits soared. Once again, if I had delved hard enough I would have found out who was the sinner and who the sinned against. Day after day I plied her with the choicest of food which she apparently had all by herself at college, politely declining that of others which she must have viewed as not worth it. That last day, when the others had brought special items, caught up in the spirit of things she had tried to join in. Like a slap in the face someone had suggested she stick to her daily routine. It would have been in jest I am sure. But Niya took it to heart, oblivious of how they must have felt at her earlier behavior, only recognizing the slur that was cast her way. To her credit, did she genuinely not understand what was going on around her? Did I hear you say that maybe I was to blame?


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And then she went away for further studies. At first there was the usual flurry of letters enquiring about the nitty  gritties of settling in followed by suitable/satisfactory replies. It was not the same as having her around but it was a connection nevertheless. Thankfully, it was the age of the handwritten letter. I recall the delight at seeing her familiar handwriting on the envelope, the impatient but careful opening and the savoring of the contents over and over again. How many places had the letter been to while in dispatch? How many had suddenly stopped to admire the perfectly formed writing? It would lie by turn on my desk, the dining table, and beside my pillow as I sneaked in a peek now and then till the next letter arrived. Then the old one would be delegated to the bunch neatly stacked in my drawer, tied up with a pretty blue ribbon. It was this collection of missives that helped me go back to exactly when her tone started to change. It was very subtle, probably discernible only to me. There was nothing materially different in them except for being interspersed with odd lines such as, “Why is the sky so cloudless?” Or, “Is it better to give or to receive?” The oddest was, “What if books were numbered with pages back to front?”

I knew she was troubled but long distance prodding could hardly make Niya yield, given her ducking into her shell attitude. I decided to take the drastic step of visiting her. I don’t know what it was about this that alarmed her but she suddenly started pouring out her soul. She had met this boy; I should have guessed. There was nothing sensational about this except that the boy did not seem to reciprocate. As I realized, my going over was not to be the solution, so this time it was only words I could offer her- words of solace, words of counseling, words of encouragement. It took a long time but finally something seemed to work. Her letters started to sound happier. It had taken every ounce of my strength to stop myself from running to her; yet she had come through. I felt I need no longer worry over her. She wrote about how this boy had taken her out for coffee, bought her a book, written her a poem. I went over these details again and again finding a new joy every time I read of these developments. And then, breaking my reverie came a terse letter which spoke of something elusive- a showdown, a breakup or what?

In terrible agitation I tossed and turned the night after I received this news. There was no direct line to speak with her. I tried to calm myself into forming words that would keep her hopes alive. I was, however, groping in the dark as she had given almost no details. Why had he backtracked? How could I comfort her, be there for her? In the middle of this tortuous mental agony came the late night call or was it very early morning? “Come quickly,” the voice said, “Niya is in emergency. “ I must have responded with something like “What happened?” One single word stood out in reply, “Overdose.” I will not try to spell out what I underwent those few hours till I could reach her as it would pale in comparison to what I was to endure thereafter.


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She lay still, eyes closed, hooked up to paraphernalia surrounding the bed. She was sleeping peacefully now though the doctor informed that there had been some agitation in between. The danger, however, was over. Thankfully, the police had been warded off too. My acute worry now turned to seething rage. Leaving my number at the hospital, I rushed to her hostel; I had to get to the bottom of this. Once I reached, I realized how little I knew of her friends, or for that matter, anybody she interacted with. Her letters had always been so full of herself, and I had always asked how ‘she’ was doing and nothing more, except to enquire about this boy she was seeing.

The best person to approach was her warden who led me to her roommate, Ruhi. Ruhi was probably a cheerful girl but now her eyes clouded with compassion as she touched my hand. Angry with the world at large, I wanted to chastise her for not being a friend and only a roommate. I found I had started to babble but something I said caused her to look at me, mystified. “How could he do this to her, after all those promises “I had said, more as an accusation than a query. “Wait, wait!” she exclaimed; “something is terribly wrong.” “You bet it is; where can I find him?” I retorted. About to interject, she seemed to suddenly make up her mind and replied, “Let’s go. “ “Where to?” I asked. “I will take you to Jit,” she said quietly. “So you know him well? Must be, after all you are her roommate” I added. “Yes, well,” she said softly, “but mostly because he is my fiancé.”

She didn’t look at me all the way. I was in no position to speak a word. On meeting him, despite my apprehensions I found Jit likeable and affable. Of course, it didn’t start out that way. Seeing my angry countenance he was somewhat hesitant, sensing that I may not be likely to believe him. As the story unfolded, however, I sagged and his voice took on a more confident note. Ruhi spoke first. After the initial settling down she realized that Niya could not make friends easily and being kind natured she arranged for some outings together with her (yet to be fiancé) boyfriend. But, she related taking an anxious look at me, soon Niya thought the threesomes de rigueur and would so naturally plant herself among them, it was difficult to refuse.  If my daughter overheard them discussing the latest movie in town, she would pipe in with,”Oh great! When shall we go?” If there was a party, she would talk so much of how she used to love parties back home that it would be almost churlish not to take her along.

If this were not bad enough, there came a time when Niya actively began to try and steal Jit’s attention. She would dress up to look as appealing as possible, pouting up at him from her childlike height to the discomfiture of Ruhi, who being rather tall and thin would look like a gangly tree in comparison.  Niya would make sure to be the one to offer Jit a drink, be the one who kept his car keys safe as he had a habit of flinging them around carelessly, and invite him to sit where she was, obviously where no more than two could sit.  At first they appreciated her efforts and then they became cloying.

Cloying soon gave way to sinister when Niya would “accidentally” forget to pass on messages, a mysterious ‘tear’ would appear in the new dress Ruhi had planned to wear that night out or a dish prepared lovingly by Ruhi would suddenly take on salty overtones. At this juncture I stopped them to ask about the gifts, the outings with Jit. The outings, it turned out were all true except that Niya had totally blotted out the third person present , attributing all that Jit said to Ruhi being directed at her, Niya.   I struggled to accept the ugly truth their friends gradually corroborated. One by one they spoke, each one’s version almost flung at me like an accusation. In actuality, they were as kind as could be but my whole being was fast taking on a defence mechanism on behalf of my daughter.


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I don’t know if I walked out midway or if they stopped speaking. There was a cacophony and a buzz between my ears all the way back to her hostel. I just wanted to collect her things and be off. There I found the’ gifts’ stored carefully under the last layer of clothing in her cupboard. “To Niya,” a book said, “with all my love.” A card read “To Niya, the only one in my life.” And there was the poem; “The morning sunlight falls off your hair, in dancing cascades of blinding light; a beauty such as yours is rare, by the brightness of day or darkness of night.” My sobs came fast, uncontrollable and in horrible gasps. I sank on the bed with its bright yellow bedcover. Each and every one of the gifts was exactly as described by her except that the handwriting on each one was hers.

It was only right that I go back and make my amends and piece the last bit of the story together. And this is what Ruhi said. Troubled that nothing they said or did seemed to penetrate to Niya, worried that the strain was stretching their relationship to its seams; they decided to get engaged and inform her. This would have caused the showdown.  To drive the point home they invited Niya to the simple ceremony, taking her silence as a good sign, a sign of acceptance. However, with the exchange of rings she seemed to turn deathly pale. None of Ruhi’s friends, aware of the undercurrents, disturbed Niya.  On the way back home with Jit and Ruhi, the dam burst and the accusations burst loose. “How could you!” Niya spat out at them, “how could you!” Deeming it wiser to keep quiet they dropped her back, leaving for a private celebration of their own. Niya got off wordlessly; all the fight seemed to have left her. There was nobody around to weave a fairytale that would set everything right, nobody to apply balm to the festering wound. Later that night they found her sprawled, bereft of words, defenseless, unconscious on her lonely hostel bed. And then I got the call.

I went back to the hospital. I thought she was asleep, probably wanted her to be asleep. I dreaded facing her, not knowing what I had to offer her. What solace could I provide her this time? She opened her eyes. Her face had a tired look but she managed a small smile. I watched, waiting for reality to hit her. ‘Chilling,’ yes that’s the word, ‘chilling ‘my bones to the marrow, a brilliant smile lighting up her face, her visage transformed, looking beyond me, she lilted in a hauntingly happy voice, “Oh ma, you have brought Jit with you! I knew you would do it. Only you could!” Purely on reflex, I swiveled my head back, towards the door. There was, needless to say, no one there.

It has been some time now. She flits in and out of her imaginary, fairy tale world. I turn to stone when she shows off her bare ring finger with a flourish. She doesn’t need my words to tell her how much I admire the engagement ring which she believes embellishes her finger. She’s happy to just wave it around in front of me. Sometimes she sees him sitting across and talks to him in solitary conversation. For most of the time she lies around vacantly. I shiver when I come to know of the school and college incidents from her sessions with the doctor. At times though, she wears a perplexed look, as if there is some elusive reality she is grasping at, but this reality always remains beyond her reach as she settles back with a look of contentment. Her fairytale continues. My fairytale is over.